Supplanted

Before I go on, it may be pertinent to relate the relative dimensions and locations of our Earth held sectors of space, since I have already told of how we traversed most of them.

The Alpha sector is, of course, Earth’s home system and the central system around which our colonies are settled. If you were to obtain a model of the Milky Way galaxy and orient the center of the galaxy to be north of our home solar system, then the Beta sector would be the nearest planetary system due east of Earth. Gamma sector would be somewhat to the southwest. Delta sector would be to the south, somewhat between the Beta and Gamma sectors, and the Epsilon sector would be situated due north.

Their distances from the Alpha sector are another matter. It is a shorter distance to go from the Gamma sector to the Beta around the Delta sector without traversing the Alpha sector. You’d need a stellar cartographer to explain why that is; of which, I am not.

Each sector is divided into quadrants to assist in the location of a colony as it orbits its sun, or to allow for multiple planetary systems located in the same sector, as in the Beta sector. Again, north would be toward the center of the galaxy. The alpha quadrant would be the first quarter of the planet’s orbital route, or, if it were to be viewed from above as a clock, from twelve to three is the alpha quadrant; three to six is the beta quadrant; six to nine is the gamma quadrant; and, nine to twelve is the delta quadrant.

Some systems choose to use the zodiacal system of plotting their positions around their suns, but it doesn’t always work out logically. Furthermore, multiple planetary settlements tend to use the original quadrant designation of when they were discovered as part of their name. This may seem confusing, but it’s easier to know what planet you’re being assigned to if you’re told Delta sector, Alpha quadrant, which would have been the original location of DZ 3. Anyway. . .

When we flew to the Beta sector from the Gamma sector, we didn’t necessarily come very close to the Alpha sector. This is because the distance between the Gamma and Beta sectors is so great, that a flight path between them doesn’t come within two light years of Earth. It all has something to do with the difference between parabolic curved distances as opposed to the linear connections of adjacent points on a multi-planed three dimensional map of space, but I don’t know much about geometry and such. Consequently, the Delta sector is so close to the Gamma sector that travel between them takes less than a day, even at a reserved speed.

Only the Epsilon sector remains impractically reachable from our current position: ten light years from Wilson’s World. It is suspected that the Epsilon sector is the closest Earth held system to the home system of our enemy; chiefly because it was the Epsilon sector that bore the brunt of the first attacks of our enemy so many years ago. We would be going to the Epsilon sector after our regrouping here at Wilson’s World to launch our counter offensive into the very heart of our enemy’s territory; wherever it was in relation to that sector. It would take four days to get there at full rockets.

News of the recent invasion as it came in from the Epsilon sector was sketchy at best. We were hoping that survivors from the Delta and Alpha sectors would be accompanying us there to join in the attack. We would be rejoining the rescue force that had been sent to the Delta sector at Wilson’s World. We hadn’t as yet heard anything from Earth or the Epsilon sector, and we were becoming anxious to know if our own home world had survived the latest onslaught. The evidence met us aboard the General’s carrier upon our return.

“No survivors.” That was the report from the Epsilon sector; news from Earth about its survival was classified. General Josten chose to recall the four carriers he’d sent to the Epsilon sector a few hours after hearing this terrible news some days before they’d reached their goal.

The war room aboard the General’s carrier was a somber place. More than a dozen high ranking officers shuffled papers and tapped keys at computer terminals as they set about their duties of readying the fleet for its impending assault mission. The General was busy at the far end of the room with his aides and the senior Admirals. Admiral Bowen and I slipped in unnoticed. I didn’t see Lt. LaTourno anywhere. The Admiral went to speak with the General, I sat down at an empty computer terminal and uploaded the data that I had been working on.

Second Lieutenant Martinez sat down next to me.

“How bad is it out there?” Luis asked me. “I heard we only have twenty carriers left coming in from the outer colonies.”

“It’s worse,” I told him. “We’re between a rock and a hard place alright.”

Our conversation was cut short by the Sergeant Major.

“Lieutenant, may I have a word with the Major?” Ron asked politely. I felt that I was in for a lecture, but kept typing data. 2Lt. Martinez nodded his assent and walked to the other side of the room to listen to the General.

“Begging the Major’s pardon,” the SGM began to me in his official voice, “but we don’t need any negative thinking spread around the room. I know the truth of our situation, and I know that you’ve been out there and seen it first hand, but the huddled masses don’t need any more worries than they already have. They’ll find out the worst of it soon enough.”

“Sorry, Ron, I wasn’t thinking;” which I wasn’t; I was typing; I had too much to try to process on my own as it was; sans interruptions or social banter. Something about this new data concerning the enemy wasn’t adding up in my opinion. Opinions aside, the facts would have to be presented shortly, and I was the presenter.

Ron gave me a knowing pat on the shoulder and stepped aside. He intercepted any and all attempts to interrupt me from that time until I had finished my data input. It took me twenty minutes. I saved the data and ran the program. It was now time for me to present my findings to the group. A silence fell over the room as I opened the first file and fired up the holographic projector. I hadn’t even noticed that their collective attention had been on me for quite some time.

The room around me filled with a hologram of the August Moon system. The program ran the data that we had recovered from the survivors and the salvaged carrier flight recorders that had been brought to us. Red spots represented our forces, and green spots represented the enemy. More green spots filled the room than red. I began by outlining the defensive actions as they unfolded at the beginning of the battle.

“As you can see, our forces moved into the standard defensive positions outlined from years of engagements with the enemy; they are considered the most effective means of defense against our current enemy, and had proven most effective up until this latest incursion. Each carrier places itself between the oncoming invaders and the planet at predetermined distances from each other. The defensive spread is determined by past experiences in battles and is based on the enemy’s tendency to directly engage our carriers rather than attack civilian targets. Because of the diminished number of carriers in space at the time of the attack, the areas covered by these defense grids are grossly undermanned.” A groan of agreement came from the surrounding darkness. I continued.

“Since the enemy outnumbered our forces some two hundred to one at this point, the defense carriers had no reasonable effect on deterring the attackers. Contrary to past stratagems, the enemy sends only fighter craft to engage our defense forces, while their carriers and larger attack craft move past them into bombing positions over the planetary colonies. Their carriers then took up defensive positions over their bombers. I will now skip ahead to better illustrate this pertinent new stratagem.”

The room swirled as the data projection fast forwarded. When it stopped, there were fewer red and green spots in the room, but still a decided numerical advantage to the enemy. I waited a moment for the assembled crowd to adjust to the new projection.

“As the planet was being bombarded, our remaining carriers regrouped and formed a wedge. This wedge formation was then used to directly attack the orbiting bombers while ignoring the harassing enemy fighters and carriers. Surprisingly, as our fighters provided cover to our carriers by holding off the enemy fighters and their carriers, the orbiting bombers gave little to no defensive effort against our attacking forces. Note the systematic elimination of the enemy bombers; this success ratio has no reasonable explanation at present.

“The second inexplicable action taken by our enemy comes toward the end of the battle.” I fast forwarded again. “Once each enemy bomber has covered its assigned target area, or has exhausted its complement of ammunition, or has been rendered otherwise non-combative due to damage, it withdraws from the attack. We have no definitive data that accounts for this action, but we may have a similar event in Earth’s war history that might help to explain it.” I stepped to the center of the room to give my history lesson. I was quite proud of it, seeing as I had only memorized most of it a few hours before.

“I am referring to the Spanish Armada. In 1588, the country of Spain on Earth assembled a fleet of ships that greatly outnumbered every other country’s available warships. Their intent was to invade and conquer the country of England to their north. A smaller group of English warships attacked and crippled this Armada before it could successfully perform its mission. The best explanation as to how the Spanish had allowed this to happen is that the Spanish had manned their ships with more ground troops than experienced sailors. As a result, when the English attacked, they inflicted more damage upon the Spanish because the English ships had the more experienced crews; experienced Spanish gunners were thinly dispersed throughout the fleet.

“Although they sank few vessels, the English managed to harass and outmaneuver the Spanish Armada until its effectiveness as a military force was defeated. Although this is a brief and incomplete historical overview, it applies to our current situation in this way:

“We believe that the enemy recruited massive numbers of under trained pilots, gunners and commanders in order to attempt this extermination of our species in the course of a single attack. It explains the enemy’s inability to effectively defend itself against an organized counterattack, as well as explaining why so many of their fighters fell to our forces in such staggering numbers, and why their bombers withdrew rather than put up a fight.

“With the exception of the forces that destroyed the Delta and Epsilon sectors, all other encounters with the enemy during this attack resulted in their failure to complete their mission. It is our conclusion that the most experienced enemy fighters and commanders are too thinly spread throughout their fleet. It may be possible that attrition has rendered their ability to muster an effective fighting force impossible at this point in the war.

“We further believe that this all encompassing invasion is the enemy’s last ditch attempt at a complete victory. Our counterattack should meet with minimal resistance since their forces are severely depleted of experienced soldiers, and the losses that they have suffered in this engagement must have rendered their available defenses weak and vulnerable.” That last remark was pure conjecture on my part, but I wanted to end with as much hopeful conviction as possible.

I turned off the holo-projector and the room lights came up. General Josten began a round of applause. However inappropriate, it alleviated the morbid atmosphere of the war room and boosted our morale. The General then began his pep talk.

“So you see, gentlemen, our enemy is in his last throes of defeat. This massive attack is only a cover up for his diminished ability to fight an effective war against us. His failure to finish us off shall prove his undoing. Our counterattack will bring the end to this war that our enemy so desired, only it will be our victory, not his!” A cheer resounded. I stood in disbelief; his conjecture was even greater than mine, and the ignorant masses were eating it up; or maybe he believed that our enemy actually lived in the Epsilon sector secure in its belief of their own inaccessibility; perhaps he completely believed in the success of our mission. I would have to wait for the answers, and hope to live long enough to hear them. The General continued.

“To your ships, men; the game is afoot. We will pursue our enemy back to his lair and do unto him what he had hoped to do unto us: finish the job.” Another cheer and the sounds of confident commanders leaving to bolster the collective morale of their crews emptied the room. I attempted to leave with them.

“James!” you may guess who called me, “wait. That was an excellent presentation, Major; top notch. This data from the Beta sector was just the thing to get our boys feeling good about the task ahead. Come; we should have a drink and toast the success of our counter attack.”

“Begging the General’s pardon,” I muttered, “but I would rather get back to my farm and see to it that it’s taken care of while I’m gone.” I was lying again; I felt that I was doing a great deal more of that recently. The General nodded his assent.

“Quite so my friend, quite so. Yes, we could all do with a day or two’s shore leave. I’ll order it fleet wide. A chance for those who wish it to put their affairs in order. Go. I’ll see you aboard my command carrier in 24 hours to finalize our preparations.”

I gulped. “Aboard your carrier, sir?”

“Yes,” Eric beamed. “I’m promoting you to Colonel and putting you in command of the re-established Rough Riders unit. You are to spearhead our ground counterattack once we enter enemy territory. I fully expect you to bring glorious victory to our cause.”

I stood speechless. I needed a drink. I left the General with a salute and a half-hearted, “Thank you, sir” and left for a shuttle to go planet side. Whatever would I tell Ron about this latest promotion? What would I tell Admiral Bowen? Whatever would I tell Rollo?

Entry 7a

Some good news

Once I was back on the ground, I caught a ride back to my farm with one of my neighbors, Dave Kim, on his four-wheeler. He and his wife and their three kids farmed five miles down the road from me, but business had brought him to Kaletown in the wake of the attack. He filled me in on the extent of the local damages.

“The Joneses lost everything,” Dave told me. “Lucky he had a bomb shelter built far away from his house or them carpet bombs woulda flattened him and Gloria and the kids along with their homestead. The ’splosions came too damn near close to us too. Both east and west and north of the colony, you cain’t travel; the roads, and bridges are gone, and mosta the places between us and Capital City are gone too; ’long with Capital City.”

I could see the evidence of the bombing as we rode through the center of town. The entire north side of the city, where the spaceport once sat, was now a crater filled with rubble. Two casinos had attempted to take off; one of them now was lying on its side and burning west of town. The other stood askew on its original moorings, smoldering. A line of symmetrical craters ran from the north quarter of town to the east and west as far as I could see. The bombers that were bombing Kaletown and its outskirts had very nearly finished the job. It was lucky that we had come back when we did. Dave filled me in on the status of the rest of the planet.

“Only Capital City was completely flattened. They obviously knew that it was our most important place, besides here. Most every other major colony city got fifty percent damage or more. There was no place to run; we was sittin’ ducks. We heard it was your carrier that scared ’em off. Thank Gawd you guys came back when ya did.”

I couldn’t help agreeing with him. Dave further informed me of the recovery efforts now under way around the planet. We still had seventy percent of our farmlands active and productive, (cities were the obvious main targets) and reconstruction was going well. The casinos that had come from the outer systems had reestablished themselves in the coastal town of Atlantis, and all of the refugees that kept coming in were being settled into rapidly built shelters that clustered around each remaining city; some lived in the ships they had come in, like the recreational vehicles of old Earth; whatever they were, others shared hastily built shacks made from whatever salvage could be found. We drove through one of those newly formed suburbs of shelters and ships as we exited Kaletown and headed for home.

Dave told me some final personal information about my neighbors and who and what had survived. It was comforting to know that everyone I knew out in the farms had lived through the attack, but several had lost homes and much of their lands. He dropped me off at the gate of my own farm and said a pleasant farewell; I waved goodbye. When I turned around, I was immediately greeted by a frantic Rollo.

I’m no animal psychologist. I couldn’t tell if Rollo’s reaction to my return was one of relief or reprimand. He did seem glad to see me between fits of crowing, pecking, flapping, scratching the ground furiously and what I can only describe as hugs as he enveloped me in his huge wings repeatedly. I practically had to fight my way past him to get into the house.

The front door was intact, with a little debris on the roof. As I went inside, I scanned the living area for signs of damage. On the far side of the living room, the one window that looked north toward the bomb craters was shattered. Some rain damage had resulted. Nothing else was in too bad a shape. The bedroom and kitchen had some items knocked off of shelves, but nothing irreplaceable.

My farming robots had done fairly well tending to the crops. (Farm bots are not programmed to repair houses, by the way, just barns and coops.) The latest harvest had been collected and was ready for transport. I decided to leave my many waiting holo-vid messages unread and take my latest harvest to town; once there I could take my mind off of the impending doom of our questionably planned counterattack.

I changed into some overalls, a white t-shirt and a pair of boots that I recovered from the collapsed shelves in my closet. It took me a few minutes to hitch my harvest trailer to the back of my four-wheeler. I had to bribe Rollo and his hens with extra rations to stop them from further welcoming me home. After two hours, I was finally on my way.

As I approached the city gates, a strange sense of celebration seemed to be emanating from inside. I was greeted by the same guard that had been on duty when Ron and I had come to see the arrival of the new commander.

“Hey, Captain!” the young guardsman called; he obviously didn’t know about my recent promotions. “Great news about Earth, huh?”

I was admittedly in the dark. “What news about Earth?”

“They survived!” he blurted out. “Oh, you’re just back from space tour. Well, didn’t you listen to your holo-vid messages? They’ll be sending a hundred ships to join in the counterattack.” He then added a gleeful prediction, “We’re finally gonna win this thing!”

I moved into the city somewhat in a daze. I didn’t know if I would laugh or cry. If the news about reinforcements was true, that guard might be right. Another hundred ships added to our attack fleet would definitely be a welcome boost, and a very possible tip of the scales of advantage in our favor. Still, something nagged at me about this new development. I stopped at the mostly deserted market depot and unhitched my trailer. I told the lone human attendant that I’d be back later, remounted my four-wheeler and headed for the red light district.

I drove slowly through dozens of elated citizens clogging the streets with their celebrations. For the first time since I’d arrived on Wilson’s World, I didn’t recognize the majority of the people. Most of them were drunk; not just on alcohol, but on the good news about Earth. I pulled up behind Emma’s Brothel and parked. I had to wade through more drunken revelers to get to the front door.

“Nice to see you again so soon, honey,” Emma greeted me as I shut the door on the melee behind me. She always used the same welcoming line even if it was your first visit. “What’ll be your pleasure?”

I reddened. I can’t explain why; I’d done this dozens of times here and in dozens of different places. This time seemed different for some unknowable reason. This time might even be my last time.

“Is 2235 available?” Outer world concubines are identified by numbers, not names. It has something to do with their right to privacy or some such nonsense. I had a momentary lapse to ask myself what they had to keep private; then abruptly returned to my senses.

“No, honey,” Emma said. “She up and got married two weeks ago to some off-world city slicker; nice looking kid, a little slow; great lover,” she winked. “I give it a year at most. Men don’t really appreciate a woman who’s experienced sexually. Men don’t like a woman who’s other ways superior to them either. Am I right, honey?” She chuckled to herself. I smiled shyly and asked about 7170.

“Ooh, yeah; good choice, honey. She’s on the eighth floor, room 827. Have a nice st-lay, honey.” Emma liked to pronounce the word ‘stay’ as if it were a two syllable word that had an ‘L’ in it. She and a few lobby choices giggled as I made my way to the elevator. I wondered if they had always giggled at that joke, or if just this time they were giggling at me. I was beginning to become resentful at giggling women, especially when I didn’t get the joke. But, . . .

7170 is a short, long straight black haired, green eyed, gorgeous figure of a woman who reminds me of a brief fling I once almost had aboard ship. Her name was. . . I’ve forgotten, how embarrassing. We “dated”, for lack of a better term, for the better part of the six months that we were on patrol together on that one mission. After which, she was transferred and we lost contact. I was thinking about her as I stepped off the elevator.

The hallway was gratefully empty. I followed the signs to room 827 through the maze of hallways and knocked on the door. 7170 answered it wearing a see through red-orange camisole with matching thong and no bra. I think I should mention that the effects of gravity have long been overcome by science when it comes to its influence on the professional female form. As such, my date’s breasts bobbed jelly like in the air as she struck her most seductive pose against the door.

“Hi, sugar,” she drawled. “Come for a good time?”

What a stupid question. I swept her into my arms and explored her tonsils with my tongue as I pushed her backwards into the room. The door slammed shut and locked automatically. We fell intertwined upon the bed. She expertly stripped us and we partook of each other’s flesh. (Classy turn of phrase, isn’t it? I felt it would sound better than, “We fucked like horny animals in many and varied positions.”)

I spent the next six hours with 7170. We mostly cuddled, then we had athletic sex between cuddling sessions. She could tell I was bothered by something and tried her best to take my mind off of it. Our last hour’s pillow talk was all about declassified military issues.

“So, you’re gonna spearhead this counter-fight thingy?” she cooed as she rubbed my chest.

“Yeah,” I said unenthusiastically. “I don’t know if I’ll be coming back from this one.” I wasn’t trying to be morbid, just honest.

“No biggie. I’ll be here when you get back.” She gave a soft giggle and kissed my cheek. “I like you. You’re not like the other army bums who just wanna fuck all the time. They wear thin after about five minutes. But you’re a lover.” She snuggled up under my right arm. “I could really go for a guy like you.”

“I’m just a farmer and a fighter pilot,” I reminded her. “Life with me would be dull and nerve wracking. When I’m home, I’m working; when I’m away on patrol, you wouldn’t know if I were alive or dead.”

7170 purred in my ear. “That sounds purr-fect to me. Think of it. Just you and me, out in the middle of nowhere, just the two of us, maybe some more later, can’t you just see the way it would be? I see you coming home to the little woman after a hard day of defending the universe; me bending over the stove cooking your dinner; you taking me in your arms and kissing me hard and passionate; and then later, in the bedroom. . .”

I broke off our engagement at that point. The problem with a hired sex partner is that she’s trained to tell you what you want to hear, or what she thinks you want to hear. Although I didn’t want to hear about settling down and starting a family, I didn’t mind having it suggested by a sultry voice after multiple orgasms. I also needed to get home and finish tying up loose ends. I left my bed of momentary bliss, got dressed, tipped 7170 more than I could afford and went back to my four-wheeler. I wondered if she was the least bit serious about settling down. Perhaps she was feeling anxious about almost being eradicated not twenty four hours earlier and was thinking about her own possible future, or lack thereof. Perhaps she was just doing her job. I took the rear elevator back down to the lot where I’d parked my four-wheeler.

Back at the market depot I collected my empty trailer, thumb printed the credit memo that I had just recently overspent and began the drive back home. The streets were less crowded now and morning was four hours away. No one seemed to be in much of a pleasant mood anymore. I wondered why.

When I got home, I listened to my holo-vid messages. The story about Earth was third after a month old invitation to a local religious luncheon and an offer to refinance my whatever. Four other messages remained. I listened to the wondrous news of Earth’s miraculous survival.

“Repeated attempts to storm our defenses proved fruitless,” the animated news anchor told me. “Wave after wave of enemy fighters and bombers were repulsed by the valiant Jupiter squadrons. Reinforcements from Mars and Earth sent the bedraggled remnants of the enemy packing with its collective tail between its legs. A short pursuit made sure that all enemy incursions had been either expelled from the system or destroyed.

“President MacArthur praised the efforts of our brave defenders in his victory speech. Although our home system has beaten back the enemy, none of our outlying colonies have survived. Reports have come in showing complete devastation in all sectors. No survivors have been reported in any of the four colonial systems.” (A lot he knew.)

“General Halbrick of the Joint Chiefs of Staff has issued an order for the remaining Earth Defense Fleet to stay on full alert until further notice. Refugees from the Delta and Beta sectors have brought reports of. . .” I turned off the message. I knew the rest. (At least I thought I did.)

My fourth and fifth messages were from concerned acquaintances. I hurriedly answered them with little more information than, “I’m fine. The farm is fine. I’ll be joining a counterattack mission tomorrow.” I didn’t bother with any “hope to see you soon” closures, and I certainly wasn’t tempted to end with some, “long live the republic” nonsense. I doubted they and I would ever see each other again. It also reminded me to update my final wishes package with the cyber lawyers - later. The penultimate message was one I had never expected. It was from Celia.

“I hope you get this,” a crackling voice from the past on a snowbound screen said. Her image was blurry, and interference plagued her with sporadic dialogue. “. . . from Harvest Moon. We’re on our way to Wilson’s World. . . . and I. May we see you? Anyways, . . . noon tomorrow. Bye.” The screen went to a saver logo.

I was in too great a state of shock to hit the reset button. She was coming to Wilson’s World by noon tomorrow? I checked the time stamp. Tomorrow was today. And who was this “we, and I” she spoke of? How the Hell did she know where to find me? I hastily checked my last message. It was from the fleet commander.

“Colonel Johansson; report at 1600 hours, USS Faust, to take command of the newly formed Wilson’s Rough Riders regiment; attack briefing to be held at 1630 hours in your ready room. That is all.”

I would have about four hours to meet and greet Celia and company; if I so desired, and less than six to prepare for it. What I wanted most now was a nap until dawn; which was about three hours away; if I could sleep. I couldn’t.

Dawn broke and I set about my morning chores. Feed the chickens, stock the bat lures, cover the broken window, breakfast. The holo-vid sounded as I finished my toast. It was Ron.

“How’s everything out at your place?” Ron asked.

“Okay, I guess,” I was distracted.

“What? Is something amiss?” I could never keep a secret from Ron; though how he read that something was wrong from ‘okay, I guess’, I’ll never know. “Do you need help cleaning up? I could be down. . .”

“No, nothing I can’t handle. It’s just that. . .” I didn’t know how to put it into words. Ron allowed a pregnant pause.

“It’s just that what?” Ron was trying to be sociable, but his Sergeant Major blood demanded a straight answer; even from a superior officer and friend.

“I got a vid message from Celia,” I confessed to him.

“Celia who?” It occurred to me that this portion of my past had never been revealed to my best friend on Wilson’s World. I formulated a quick briefing.

“Celia. . . something. It’s not important. She’s a girl I went through basic with along with Eric back when we were ten or twelve. We were never serious. But getting calls from old friends at a time like this. . . it’s more than a bit overwhelming.”

Ron made his understanding nod and grunt. “Is she coming to see you?”

I didn’t really know. “Maybe, her message was a mess. She’ll be here at noon, or at least she’ll be on world at noon. I guess she knows what town to go to.

“Ron?” I tried not to sound desperate. “What should I do? Stay here? Go get her? Meet her someplace? Send a limo?”

“Not really my area of expertise,” Ron admitted. “I could do a little research and see when and if she’ll make it here on time.”

“That’s much appreciated.” We hashed out a few details and signed off. I was now in a more anxious state than before. I went outside to think.

Seven fertilized eggs sat in the giant chicken coop. Rollo had been busy. His hens sat proudly on their charges as I used the life scanner to determine the viability of their contents; all of them were healthy. Rollo stood guard at the door; I’m not sure if he was guarding me or his potential offspring from me. I resolved to let the eggs incubate and hatch. Whoever came back to this farm, they would have a fresh flock of chicks to deal with as they saw fit. I left the coop.

Rollo followed me as I walked the fence; ever watchful. I kept to my own thoughts. Should I fix lunch for my guests? How many would there be? Should I change into my dress uniform? How many questions would I ask myself? Did I have any answers? It was 0956 when I got back inside. My first accomplishable active decision was to take a shower.